John was leaning against the doorjamb to 221B when he heard the footsteps. Arms crossed over his chest, defensive position, Mycroft Sodding Holmes might believe he can bully me around but he'll know better in a minute.

"Tell you what - if there's a folder in your jacket with paperwork you want me to sign, you can turn 'round and just get out."

On the small landing below John stood Mycroft, leaning on his umbrella, looking unperturbed by John's demands. "As ever, John, I merely wish you to consider this."

"No." John's face is blank as he stares at the man Sherlock once proclaimed to be the British government.

Mycroft's smile is unfriendly but John won't flinch, he won't show that this bothers him. "I could force the issue, you know."

"You could, but you won't."

"Won't I?"

It's John's turn for an unfriendly smile. "Nope."

"And why is that, John?" Mycroft cocks his head, evaluating. John's smile grows wider.

"Because if you thought for a second - even a split-second - that Sherlock would be better anywhere but with me, you'd have whisked him out of here before either of us knew what was happening."

"Perhaps I simply needed time to arrange matters."

"You could have had it all arranged before he was out of the hospital."

Mycroft smiles, a different smile now - John can recognize it, the sign of respect that comes so infrequently from either Holmes but even less-so from Mycroft. "Then perhaps I needed to gauge his reactions to you."

"Then you'll be very aware of how well he's doing and how happy he is, under my care." John stresses those last two words, and he sees it - he can see the moment the inflection hits Mycroft's brain, because his eyes dart away for just a moment before coming back to John, a sort of bleakness in them now that wasn't there before.

"I worry about him."

"Constantly. I know."

Mycroft scowls but says nothing, staring at John's passive face. A silent power play, but John's played this game with Sherlock so many times he knows he'll win, knows that Mycroft will eventually admit defeat, and he lets himself smirk when Mycroft takes in a deep breath and closes his eyes.

"John."

"You know his best chance is by being with me. You do know that, don't you?"

"John, I-"

"Because as I recall, you traded his whole life to Moriarty, and Moriarty sold it to that disgusting girl from the tabloids. So of the two of us, I'm the only one who hasn't ever sold him out."

Mycroft's mouth twisted, angry, petulant, good, good, I want you to feel like a prat.

"I have told you before, John, that had I known-"

"No, Mycroft, as his brother, you should have known. You knew Moriarty's level of obsession. You knew his tendencies. You thought you were so damn clever, and he played you like Sherlock once played that violin."

Mycroft takes a deep breath at that, and John feels that horrible sense of joy at seeing Mycroft so unsettled by him, by the truth, because the truth will out, Mycroft, and now you can't change it, can't stop it, can't take it back.

"Do not underestimate me John. Please know that I will always do whatever I feel is best for my brother."

"Then please - don't underestimate me. Understand that I will always be here - right here - protecting him. Standing between you two when needed. He's your brother and you love him - I know that, even if you don't say it, even if you never tell him that. But - and I mean this sincerely - do not underestimate my determination to keep him safe. Even from you."

Mycroft's chin raises as he regards John, but he only nods.

"You are far more intelligent than my brother ever gave you credit for."

"No, I'm smarter than you ever gave me credit for. But Sherlock knew. Sherlock's always known." John tilts his head to the side, and the movement is eerily similar to the way he considered Mycroft during their first meeting. "If that's all you came for, then off you pop. He's just fallen asleep twenty minutes ago, and I'll not have you waking him up when he needs his rest."

Mycroft looks ready to argue, to walk up those stairs anyway, but after a moment he nods and walks back down the stairs. John hears the door open, and close, hear the faint sound of the car driving away. He pulls in a shuddering, deep breath as he slumps against the doorframe, hands going to his face, palms pressed into his eyes and head dipping between his now spread knees. He shakes uncontrollably, a few rough noises escaping from his throat as he tries not to shatter into dust.

When he's finally able to sit up straight, he does so slowly, taking in long, slow, deep breaths, getting his heart rate under control again, making sure he's not going to stand up and fall over. He leans back against the doorjamb, letting his head tilt back so he's staring at the ceiling.

"That was a quiet one, then." He looks down at the landing with a start, seeing Mrs. Hudson standing there with two cups of steaming tea. He sniffles and nods, holding his breath for a moment to try and gain control. "Oh, John, don't you worry, love." Mrs. Hudson takes the steps carefully and hands him a cuppa. "He's all bluster."

"But he could easily cause a tornado. And Sherlock..." John closes his eyes and takes a sip. Earl Grey, hint of sugar, no cream, perfect, how does she always make it so perfect?

John stands and escorts Mrs. Hudson into the living room, where she sits in Sherlock's chair. John smiles as he thinks about how, of everyone they know, she's the only one afforded this courtesy.

"Mycroft Holmes thinks he knows what's best for all of us." Mrs. Hudson took a sip of her tea and smiled at John, such a mothering smile, how did she never have children, really. "But he doesn't take into account anyone else's feelings on the matter."

"No. Mycroft doesn't think other people's feelings are important."

"He'll understand soon enough, dear."

John looked at her, studying her for a moment. "What makes you say that?"

"Oh it's nothing-"

"Mrs. Hudson..."

"I just think, that if he were try and force the issue, Sherlock would make his life a living hell."

"Mmm." John can picture that, in fact. He can see one of Sherlock's truly epic tantrums turned on Mycroft, who wouldn't have a clue how to handle it all, and would probably be on the phone to John in a split second. John allows himself a small chuckle.

"How is he, after the crime scene?" Mrs. Hudson is looking towards Sherlock's bedroom, which is dark and quiet.

"Better than he's been in a while, I think." John shakes his head. "It makes no sense, but..." He shrugs. "It's Sherlock."

Mrs. Hudson smiles at him. "He's special, John. Always has been."

John smiles back at her and drinks his tea.